


Raise Some Hell

by arden_scott



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Young Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty), Young Stan Pines, brief mention of past self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 06:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12163782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arden_scott/pseuds/arden_scott
Summary: As he turns, his eye lands on a man sitting across the bar with hair the color of the sky over the open desert. He’s tall, thin, and his shirt reveals more than it covers up. He sticks out like a sore thumb, and it would be funny, except then he catches Stan staring. The guy gives him a filthy smirk and a wink.Fuck. Stan bows his head over the bar, ears burning, and finishes his beer. He’s not sure what this guy wants, but it’s almost certainly going to cause trouble.--A chance meeting at a bar in the middle of nowhere.





	Raise Some Hell

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr link](http://ardenscott.tumblr.com/post/165652445433/raise-some-hell)

After a while it all begins to look the same. The roads, the towns, the empty stretches of land…. Stan can barely tell them apart anymore. This place is no different, a small blip in the wide emptiness of the Arizona desert. Stan doesn’t even know the town’s name, just knows that it consists of maybe half a dozen streets and at least one bar, where he’s been sitting for a while now. It’s the usual scene for whistle-stop towns like these, dim and worn and smelling of a few decades of cigarette smoke. The counter is sticky beneath Stan’s arms, and he’s the youngest guy there by at least thirty years, but the beer is cold and cheap, and after the week Stan has had, he’s going to have a few drinks, come hell or high water or the Nevada State Police. 

So he does, knocking back a couple beers as the sky darkens and evening slips into night. He gets tipsy and relaxes and listens to the old lady who owns the bar tell stories about picketing the White House for the right to vote. It’s nice to unwind like this, to breathe easy for once after the last week of scams gone wrong and evading the law. And he deserves it, this little break, so he’s going to milk it for all it’s worth.

Time goes liquid, a few hours slipping away in the blink of an eye. The next time Stan checks his watch, it’s nearing midnight, and the crowd has become depressingly thin.

He sits upright and twists in his seat, the muscles of his back aching from way he’s been slouched over the counter. As he turns, his eye lands on a man sitting across the bar with hair the color of the sky over the open desert. He’s tall, thin, and his shirt reveals more than it covers up. He sticks out like a sore thumb, and it would be funny, except then he catches Stan staring. The guy gives him a filthy smirk and a wink.

_ Fuck.  _ Stan bows his head over the bar, ears burning, and finishes his beer. He’s not sure what this guy wants, but it’s almost certainly going to cause trouble. 

“You should-  _ urp-  _ you should buy me a drink.”

Stan swivels to find the blue-haired man leaning on the bar next to him, grinning out of the corner of his mouth, brow raised. Now that he’s standing, Stan realizes that his shirt has been cut short, showing off the vee of his hips and a trail of dark hair.

“I should, should I?”

“Ye- _ urp _ ,” he replies. Stan assumes it’s supposed to be an agreement.

“Why’s that?”

The man leans in close, leering. “Because,” he murmurs, “I don’t let anyone fuck me unless they buy me a drink first, and I  _ r-really _ want you to fuck me.” He nips at Stan’s earlobe then pulls back with a harsh laugh.

Heat flares across Stan’s face. It's hot, honestly; the guy’s got guts, and Stan likes that in a person. This is hardly the place for it, of course, the kind of small town where people like Stan and Rick would catch a lot of shit if they got caught. But even though the scrapes and bruises from Nevada are only beginning to heal, things have already been too quiet for too long. So now that Stan has even the tiniest opportunity to raise some hell… well. He's considering it. 

The guy is still standing there, too close to be anything but suggestive. Stan is intrigued, but he needs a little more than a hint of dirty talk to agree to anything. He points at the stool next to him. The man takes the gesture for what it is and sits, legs spread wide in a way that probably should have split his tight jeans but didn't. 

_ Christ. _

Stan wiggles two fingers at the old lady behind the bar. She slides the bottles down with a look both men pointedly ignore. 

Stan tips his bottle towards the man. “Stan Pines,” he says. He hasn't used that name anywhere near this part of the country, so he feels safe enough using it now. 

“R-Rick Sanchez.” He clinks his bottle against Stan’s, and they both take a drink. 

“Live around here?” Stan asks, breaking the peaceable silence. 

“Wh-why? Cuz my- m- I’m Latino?”

“What? No, I— It's just a question!”

Rick laughs in a way that lets Stan know he isn't actually mad. 

“You're an asshole,” Stan tells him. 

“Are what you eat,” Rick replies placidly. Stan chokes on his drink, and Rick pats him on the back. “S-So what are  _ you  _ doin’ out here, huh?”

“Just drifting through,” Stan says.

“Obviously,” Rick snorts. “You got drifter wri— written all over you.”

“What about you, then? You actually live here?”

“Nah, just passin’ through, too. Had a show in Phoenix last night.”

“A show?”

“Like a concert, shithead.”

“Oh. You're in a band?”

“The Flesh Curtains, baby!”

“The Flesh Curtains,” Stan repeats slowly. “Sorry, never heard of ya.”

“Well, maybe I can give you a private show,” Rick replies. The look on his face is dangerously wicked, and it sends something burning through Stan’s blood.

“Maybe you can,” Stan murmurs. Rick’s grin flashes in the dim lighting. 

The conversation gets back on track then, or at least as on track as a conversation with Rick Sanchez can be. He’s profoundly intelligent, that much is clear, but it’s a chaotic sort of brilliance, the kind that bounces from thought to thought with no apparent connection. At first Stan tries to keep up, but he shortly realizes that Rick doesn’t care if he understands or not; he just likes an audience. It’s a lot easier after that, just sitting and listening to Rick babble on about music and chemistry and politics and space travel.

“I’m just saying,” Rick says, gesturing expansively, “if— if the idiots at NASA got their shit to— together, we’d be on Mars by now.”

“Why would we want to go to Mars anyways?”

Rick’s face scrunches up as if he’s been personally offended. “Why  _ wouldn’t _ you want to— to go to Mars?”

Stan shrugs, and Rick squints suspiciously at him until the old lady behind the counter announces last call. Then Rick slides off his stool, stretching as he stands. “C’mon, Pines, let's get outta here.”

“Lemme take a piss first,” Stan grunts.

Rick surreptitiously pinches his ass as he walks by. “Meet you outside.”

Stan feels his face heat even as he punches Rick in the arm.

True to his word, Rick is outside, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He grinds it out on the asphalt and quirks his brow at Stan. “Which one’s yours?”

“The red Diablo,” Stan says, nodding at his car. He pats his pockets for his keys, but he comes up empty. “Shit.”

He turns to go back into the bar, but Rick gets in front of him, waving something in his face. “Missing something?”

Stan snatches his keys back with a scowl. “Fuck you.”

“That's the plan.”

Rick slides into the passenger seat like he's done it a million times, kicking his feet up on the dash. Stan rolls his eyes and gets in on the driver’s side. There's a moment of hesitation; Stan doesn't actually know where they're going. Presumably they're going to leave the bar’s parking lot, but then what? Fucking in the backseat of the Stanmobile, while certainly doable, is less than ideal. He's just about to ask when Rick speaks up.

“G— _ urp—  _ Go right, then left on… fuck, I dunno, like… the third street or something.”

“And where exactly will that take us?” Stan hasn't made it this far without a healthy measure of suspicion; he's not about to drive off wherever with a random stranger.

Rick digs something out of his pocket: a little brass key with a tag for  _ The Lone Cactus Motel _ . Stan saw the sign on his way in town. “Got a room. T—Total shithole, buh— but you get what you pay for, ya— ya know?”

Stan grunts out a laugh and starts the car. “Yeah, pal, I know all about that.”

Turns out Rick isn’t the best with directions; after only a few minutes, Stan watches a sign for the city limits flick by in his rearview. He gives Rick a thoroughly unamused look.

“Uh,” Rick says inelegantly.

“Nice,” Stan shoots back. 

“Wh-what, like I’m supposed to know the way around this— around this place?”

Stan snorts. “Kinda figured you’d know where you were staying, yeah.”

Rick waves his hand in a sharp, dismissive gesture. “Waste of brain space.”

The absurdity of that gets Stan laughing. “Okay, pal. We’ll find our way.”

Stan pulls a U-turn and starts to make his way back. Normally he would feel irritated, ready to just get down to it instead of driving aimlessly through the heavy desert dark, but it’s actually… nice. Rick is nearly in tears when he hears what Stan got up to in Nevada, clutching his stomach and howling with laughter. He even has a few ideas for another scam that aren’t too shabby. It’s been a long time since Stan had someone to drive with, and he hasn’t realized how much he missed the company until now.

Eventually they get back to the town and find the motel— can't get  _ too  _ lost in a town with only a handful of streets.

When they pull up, Stan winces. The motel is indeed a shithole, complete with flickering fluorescent lights and duct-tape over the corner of one of the windows. “Yeesh, you weren't kidding. I feel like I'm gonna catch something just looking at it.”

“Ah— I’m sorry, where were you planning on staying tonight?” At Stan’s silence, Rick scoffs and swings himself out of the car. “That's what I thought.”

Stan follows Rick to his room. It's the last one on the end, farthest from the main office, which makes Stan feel just a little bit relieved; the fewer people around, the better.

Once they're inside, Stan takes a moment to look around. The room is pretty much what he expected: kitschy wallpaper, dingy carpet, generic paintings. An opened bottle of lube sits on the bedside table. Off to the side, there’s a duffle bag, a bulging cardboard box full of wires and bits of metal, and two guitar cases decorated with stickers and permanent marker. The whole pile is covered by a fine wire net. 

“Deh—definitely don’t touch that,” Rick says somewhere behind Stan. “Or do, I don’t give a fuck.”

“What’ll happen if I do?” Stan asks, not taking his eyes off it.

“Electrocute you. I made— _ urp _ — it so people would stop touching my— _ urp _ — shit.”

Stan takes a decisive step backwards, and Rick laughs. Stan flips him off. As if in retaliation, Rick smirks and yanks his shirt off, and any rude comments Stan had been thinking of making disappeared at the sight of his bare chest and—  _ fucking hell _ — the tiny silver barbells piercing his nipples.

“S-see something you like, Pines?” Rick drawls, fingering the leather collar clasped tight around his neck.

Stan crowds Rick against the door, leaning into his space. “Maybe.”

Rick tilts his head, sneering down at Stan. “Then fucking  _ do _ something about it.”

“Make me,” Stan whispers.

They stare at each other, unblinking. The air between them hums with electricity, fraught like the moment between the lightning crack and the thunder. 

Then the moment shatters, and they lunge for each other, hands fisting in clothes and hair, teeth and tongues crashing together. They bounce against the door twice before Rick pushes them away. Stan goes willingly, walking backwards across the room and pulling Rick along by the belt. He hits the bed and stops, hands coming to rest heavily on Rick’s hips. 

“Off,” he growls.

Rick gives a vicious nip to Stan’s tongue before tipping back, unbuckling his pants and yanking them down his legs with his underwear. His cock is half-hard already, rising between his skinny legs. He’s not particularly thick, but he’s long, and Stan loses time thinking about how deep that cock could reach.

“Uh, Earth to Pines?” Rick snaps his fingers in Stan’s face.

Stan blinks back, a smirk tugging on his lips. “Heh, got a little distracted.”

“Yeah, well, get distracted somewhere else.”

Stan sits on the edge of the mattress, hooks his hands around Rick’s thighs, and tugs. Rick stumbles forward, gripping Stan’s shoulders for balance. Stan noses along the crease of his leg, bites the jut of his hip, and then takes Rick’s cock into his mouth. Rick curses, fingers tightening on his fistful of Stan’s shirt. 

Stan moans and sucks him deeper, relishing the bitter and salt taste on his tongue, before letting him go with a wet  _ pop _ . “That better?” he rasps.

Rick’s cheeks are a dusky pink, slick mouth parted. “Why are you still wearing clothes?” he shoots back, tugging at Stan’s shirt. “Fuckin’ shy or somethin’?”

Stan spreads his arms wide. “All yours.”

Ricks hands are shaking, whether from nerves or adrenaline or whatever the hell is running through his system, but he manages to unbutton Stan’s shirt without tearing it. He tosses it on the floor. His hands slide up Stan’s chest, one tangling in his chest hair, the other pinching at his nipple. Then he pushes.

Stan falls back onto the bed, spread-eagle. Rick gets Stan’s pants off and climbs atop him, knees on either side of Stan’s hips. He looks good up there, self-assured and imperious, like some kind of king on his throne. 

“So how’re we doin’ this?” Stan asks.

“Like I told you,” Rick says, “I’m gonna let you fuck me.”

Stan’s cock twitches in his boxers, and Rick smirks.  _ Smug bastard. _

It’s immensely satisfying when Stan abruptly rolls the both of them, replacing that smirk with a look of shock. “Good plan.”

Rick shoves his hands down the back of Stan’s underwear, grabbing his ass. “Then get to it.”

Stan pulls Rick upright and arranges him the way he wants, kneeling on the mattress. Rick’s hands slap against the wall above the headboard, and he shakes his ass, exaggerated and demanding. “Can’t just stick it in, kiddo. Gotta get it g-g-good and l-loose.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “‘S if I’ve never done this before,” he grouses.

“Duh-dunno, Pines, have you?”

Stan smacks Rick’s ass then spreads his cheeks. He relishes the surprised yelp for only a moment before diving in, lapping over Rick’s hole with wide strokes of his tongue.

Rick  _ howls _ , that's the only word for it. The sound bounces off the thin walls and  _ fuck, _ it gets Stan so hard. He moans and licks deeper, sucking on the delicate skin of Rick’s hole.

“ _ Jesus f— fuh— fucking christ!” _

Stan lifts his head, laying kisses across Rick’s ass and back. “That good enough for you?”

Rick reaches around and grabs Stan’s hair, yanking his head back down. “Don’t fucking stop,” he snaps, arching his back to push his ass back in Stan’s face. 

Stan drags his tongue over Rick’s hole one last time, as agonizingly slowly as possible. Then he pulls away, shifting and encouraging Rick to turn over. “Got better things to do.”

The flush across Rick’s face has deepened beautifully and spread down his neck and chest. Stan presses his palm to Rick’s ribs, feeling his heartbeat skittering beneath his warm skin. His hands trail over Rick’s hips, down his legs, and—

And now that he’s looking at them, his legs, they're—  _ Jesus _ — he's got scars, thin white lines in neat rows on the insides of his thighs. Stan bites his tongue even as he reaches out to touch them. 

But Rick wants none of that. He slaps Stan's hand away, sneering. “Never seen a tortured rock star before?” The way he says it sounds like a challenge. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Stan blurts. He doesn't know why. He just wants Rick to feel like he doesn’t have to be alone.

It's a stupid thing to want. He doesn't know a goddamn thing about Rick, not really. Why would he want to go spilling his secrets to a stranger like Stan?

Rick stares at him for a moment, his face a mix of anger and confusion. Then he's muttering, “Shut the fuck up,” and rolling onto his hands and knees.

There’s so much there, hanging in the air, but it’s not Stan’s to touch, so he leaves it alone. Instead he slicks his fingers with the lube from the bedside table and rubs them over Rick’s spit-slick hole. One finger slides in effortlessly, then another a minute later. It’s tight but still easy, relaxed from each stroke of Stan’s tongue. He’s on to stretching him with three when Rick reaches back and flaps his hand at Stan.

“Enough, I’m ready.”

Stan plunges his finger in one last time, rubbing at his prostate before slipping out. 

Rick moans aloud, bucking his hips before stopping himself. “Asshole.”

“Are what you eat,” Stan sing-songs under his breath. 

“Did you  _ juh—  _ Did you just use my own joke on me?”

Stan laughs. “Guess I did.”

Rick twists around and rolls his eyes at Stan, who grins back and shucks his boxers. He’s still grinning when Rick’s eyes widen and he swears emphatically. And he’s  _ definitely  _ still grinning when Rick leans in to lap at his cock, one hand wrapped around the base, the other holding Stan’s hip.

The wet heat of Rick’s mouth is like a shock to the system. “Fuck yeah, that’s it…”

Rick glances up with hooded eyes and winks. Stan lets out a hissing breath as Rick sucks him deeper and swallows around his cock. It takes every ounce of willpower Stan possesses not to lose himself and fuck into Rick’s mouth the way he’s dying to.

“All right, all right,” Stan says at last. “That’s enough.”

Rick pulls away, not bothering to wipe the trail of spit from the corner of his mouth. “Now fuck me,” he demands. His voice is low and rough.

“ _ Fuck _ . You got a condom?”

“W-wallet. Pants pocket.”

Stan grunts and rolls off the bed, rummaging through Rick’s jeans. When he comes back, Rick has turned over onto his front again, ass in the air. It sends a pulse of lust through Stan’s gut, and he rolls on the condom without further ado. 

“Ready?” Stan asks, rubbing the head of his cock over Rick’s hole. 

“You wanna fucking engraved invitation? Just fuck— fuck me already.”

Stan pushes in carefully, biting his lip when he bottoms out. “Fuckin’ tight,” he mutters. Rick just gives a breathless laugh. 

Stan fucks him easy at first, grinding languid and filthy. Sweat beads along his hairline and drips down his temple. He's aching to go faster, to really fuck him, but he wants to see how long it takes Rick to break.

“Harder…”

Stan grins; that didn't take long. He says nothing and keeps fucking him good and slow. 

A minute later, Rick grunts. “C’mon, harder!”

“What's that?”

Stan keeps taking it easy until Rick lets out a vicious sound. “F-f-fucking fuck me, Pines! Christ, you even stick it in?! Don't- d- can't even feel it, god! 

Stan pulls out, abruptly enough to make Rick seethe and whip around, reaching for a handful of Stan. Instead Stan’s hands grip his waist and fling him further onto the bed. Stan climbs onto the bed and gets back behind Rick, yanking his ass in the air. Stan palms his cheeks apart, grinding his cock over Rick's hole.

“ _ Fuck—  _ ah, yes, fuck me, shit! Fuck, fuck my ass—” Rick breaks off with a whine, pushing back against Stan’s hands. It doesn't work; Stan is stronger.

“Want this cock?” Stan asks, hoarse and fervent. “Huh? You want me to fuck you with this cock?”

“Yes, goddamn it,” Rick snarls. “Quit bein’ a pussy and fucking give it to me, motherfucker!”

Stan shoves in with a heavy grunt, setting a brutal pace that gets Rick grunting and rocking back against his cock. It’s hard and rough and hot as hell, the mattress beneath them squeaking with the effort. Stan isn't sure if he's ever fucked anyone like this before. 

It's  _ incredible. _

Stan bites down on Rick’s shoulder, relishing the sound it drags out of his chest. The mark he leaves blooms pink for now, but he knows it’ll darken before he’s through with Rick. 

He slides his hands around to Rick’s stomach and drags up, feeling each breath Rick heaves out. Then his fingers brush against warm metal, and he toys with the piercings until Rick is whining and pushing his chest into Stan’s hands. 

“You love that, don’t you?” Stan gives another sharp tweak to Rick’s nipples before grasping his hips again and pulling him back. “Love bending over for me like this.”

The sound that hisses out of Rick’s mouth is downright obscene. He shifts on his hands, desperate and needy, and all of a sudden it seems like his arms give out. Rick tips forward into the pillows, one arm curled under his face, the other reaching down his body between his legs. 

“God, that’s good,” Stan mutters. “Touch yourself, that’s it…”

Rick moans into the pillow, the muscles in his shoulder shifting beautifully as he jerks himself off. His hole tightens and twitches, and  _ goddamn _ but it’s so hot.

“Gonna come,” Rick grunts, pushing back even harder. “Don’t fucking stop, got it?”

“Not a problem,” Stan huffs. He keeps his pace, hips slapping against Rick’s ass. The sound is obscenely loud in the otherwise silent room, and Stan loves it.

_ “Oh, fuck— fuck, fuck, fuck!” _ Rick comes with a harsh exhale, shaking hard, body tightening around Stan’s cock. Stan fucks him through it, and good Christ, it’s intoxicating, watching Rick bounce with the force of his thrusts.

Arousal burns low in his gut, spreading through his blood. Rick is whining from overstimulation and the sound is enough to tip Stan over the edge. He comes with a low grunt, gentling his thrusts to prolong the pleasure.

It takes a while for them to get their breath back, still pressed close together. Eventually they peel apart, and Stan totters to the bathroom. He drops the condom in the trash can and takes a piss, eyes closed and swaying with exhaustion.

Rick opens the door without knocking, a lit joint tucked in the corner of his mouth. “Hurry up, I gotta take a shit.”

Stan steps by, taking the joint with him as he goes. “All yours, buddy.”

It’s at this point, naked and alone in another guy’s motel room, that Stan realizes he doesn’t know what to do. Normally he’d get dressed and leave, preferably without any sticky goodbyes or promises to call that he would inevitably break. It’s exactly what he  _ should  _ do now, should slip out without another word and drive off where it's quiet and safe and lonely. 

It’s not what he  _ wants _ to do, though. If he’s being honest, he wants to stay the night and spend more time with Rick, because he’s brilliant and abrasive and  _ magnetic _ , and it’s been the most real fun Stan has had in awhile. And he knows it’s absurd, stupid, totally out of the question, because this isn’t a relationship, or even necessarily a friendship. They fucked, and that doesn’t mean Stan gets to stay the night. But it also doesn't change the fact that Stan still wants to.

The bathroom door creaks open and Stan freezes, still hovering awkwardly in the nebulous space between the bed and the door.

Rick walks out and takes his joint back as he goes, calm and unbothered. He yanks the come-stained comforter off the mattress and throws it on the floor before getting in. “Don’t make this fuckin’ weird,” he warns, pointing a threatening finger at Stan. “Just get in.”

And just like that, Stan’s (admittedly flimsy) resolve shatters. It’s more than a little strange to be spending the night, but it's exactly what he wanted, and anyways, he’s not stupid enough to turn down a night in a real bed. He climbs in beside Rick, who’s lounging back against the headboard and blowing perfect smoke rings at the ceiling.

They smoke in peaceable silence until the room is hazy and their heads are drooping on their shoulders. Rick grinds out the roach in the ashtray beside the bed and slouches back against the headboard with a satisfied sigh. Stan glances up from the pile of pillows he’s constructed and grins at Rick. He looks good like this, too, hair sex-rumpled and eyes glazed and red. Stan suspects that Rick always looks good. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but it must have happened sometime because now he’s blinking awake, and the first thing he sees is Rick, still asleep. They’ve migrated to the middle of the bed sometime during the night, limbs tangled, breathing stale morning breath into each other’s face. Still the best sleep he’s had in ages. 

Stan watches the light change behind the blinds until Rick stirs. He stretches the full length of the bed, all long arms and long legs and long torso. He still looks unfairly good.

“Morning,” Stan mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Mmh.” Rick’s jaw cracks with a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Just after ten. When do you have to check out?”

“I don’t fucking care,” Rick mutters, but he rolls out of bed anyways. Stan takes a moment to appreciate the bruises he left on Rick’s hips and shoulders before he gets up too.

His clothes are all relatively nearby, so it’s not too difficult to get dressed. Rick doesn’t have it as easy.

“How the  _ fuck _ did this get here?” Rick’s voice echoes off the tile in the bathroom. He comes out holding his shirt, looking at it in almost pained confusion. 

Stan snorts a laugh. “Can’t help you there, pal.”

Rick pulls it on after one last stern look, muttering darkly to himself. 

Stan sits on the edge of the bed to tie his shoes. “S’pose you gotta get back to the others, huh? Gotta get to the next gig?”

“N- _ urp- _ ope. We’re taking a break from touring, since Birdperson and Squanchy are going off-world for a while,” Rick replies, casual, as though Stan is supposed know what that means. He steps into his jeans, tugging them up with a distracting wiggle of his hips. “Where are  _ you _ going next?”

“Huh?”

“After you l-le— blow this town, where are you going?” His belt clinks softly, still undone. 

“Oh. No idea. I just kinda… go.” 

Rick is silent for a moment. 

“Mind if I tag along for a wh-while?”

Stan feels his brow quirk in surprise; he didn’t think Rick was the type, loner that he seems to be. He doesn’t dwell on it, though. Rick is crazy but it's the good kind, the contagious kind, draws Stan in like a moth to a goddamn flame. Letting Rick come with him feels exhilarating and dangerous and so full of potential, and he isn’t going to turn down an opportunity to raise a little more hell.

Stan grins and stands, sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture in the direction of his car. “After you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to CleverWings and Healy from the Stanchez Discord for your help! And thanks to you, dear reader, for your love and support <3


End file.
